Don't
by Katerina Riley
Summary: After three years, John sees someone who he thought was dead. Who should be dead. But Sherlock never listens to rules, so why should it be any surprise death couldn't pin him down? Inspired by a picture on DeviantArt. Warning: Johnlock


**I saw this awesome pic in DeviantArt and I just had to write this. The picture is by dauntingfire and it's called "Sherlock BBC: Just...Don't" I actually wrote this out this morning, but I was too busy to do anything about it. But now, at nearly twn o'clock at night, I'm submitting it. It's my first time using second person. So if it sucks, that's why :p**

**I feel like I must explain something. Not sure why, just do...**

**You see, I'm not a slash girl. Now before you go around saying I'm a hypocrite or something, hear me out. I'm a total cannon girl. If it's cannon I (usually) like it. I'm not going to mention Fruit Baskets (Tohro should SO have been with Yuki :p)... Anyway, like I said, I'm usually a die-hard cannon girl. Take the series The Mortal Instraments. Alex and Magnus are both guys, but the author put them together. So naturally, me being me, I put them together in my head. This is why I wrote a Johnlock. Because I think it's pretty obvious the producers are putting them together. I had the feeling ever since Sherlock and John were in the dinner/pub place and John asked Skerlock if he had a girlfriend or boyfriend. So yeah... That's why this is slash.**

**Hope you all like it :)**

**10/5/12 Edit: Fixed a mistake, thanks hippysheep! Also, please review. I love the favorites, but I also kinda wanna hear your thoughts too ^^**

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What do you do when you see someone running your way, far off in the distance? He's obviously being chased. You stand there watching, as both the man and the car get closer to you. Leaning against the brick wall, you let your dreams take hold of you. There's a sad smile on your face. _We always did so much running, _you think. _So much… _

Suddenly the man is closer to you. You feel your heart falter. You hear yourself gasp. You're frozen. Thoughts swarm around your head. Your arms weaken and the groceries you just bought crash to the ground do to the gravity. Your breathing begins to quicken. _Not now, _you beg to yourself. _I can't have a panic attack now. _But just like always, your body doesn't listen. You just know your hyperventilating is going to cause you to pass out once again.

What do you do when you see someone running towards you? He's most definitely being chased, but that's not what ails you. It's your friend's face you see on the man. Your best friends face. Your _dead _best friends face. Do you scream, and run to the nearest institute? Do you collapse to the floor? Maybe you give his face a big slap before bringing him into a hug, tears streaming down your face? Perhaps, you kiss him? But you would never do that. You're _not _gay… Right?

He's mere inches from you now. You have time to think, _I wonder if he'll stop…? _But he doesn't. Rather, he grabs your hand and yells, "Run!" So what do you do? You just see your best friend, who's been dead for _three years _being chased by someone in a black, shiny, old fashioned car. Then, the same man takes your hand and orders you to fallow him. Does he honestly expect that? So what do you do?

Like the idiot you are, you run.

Xx~oOo~xX

You're breathing hard, hands on your knees. You haven't done that much running in a long time and you're surprised that you haven't passed out. Glancing at the other man, the strange anomaly, you notice he, too, is breathing hard, his hands also on his knees. But then he looks up at you. On his face are two things that make you want to scream, die, or kiss him. Okay, maybe not kiss him since you're _not _gay. Maybe.

His eyes are wide, but right and excited. It was the look that _he _always got when there was a serial killer. His grin was on the stranger's face as well. His teeth, all of them, just like _his_. You don't know this man. It can't be _him_. It can't. You saw him die. You saw his head beaten in by the cold, concrete ground. You still remember the hands pulling him away from your best friend. You barely managed to touch his hand. Then, for the longest time you were in a daydream. You had just barely gotten your life together again when this bloke just happened to show up. You stare at the man's obvious happiness. You have a strange feeling he was happy because of the chase, just like healways was. Looking down at your hand, you notice it _isn't _shaking. A sudden memory overcomes you.

You remember your cane, the one you used to use. But once you began running, you didn't need it anymore. Your hand. It was always, constantly shaking. But when someone took you to an underground meeting, someone you didn't know, it became oddly still. You can still remember his words. _'You're not haunted by the war. You miss it.' _And then just now, only moments ago, you had been frozen in place, but when he grabbed your hand, the man who looked like _him_, but couldn't possibly, you suddenly relaxed. Silently, you curse your body. Just because some man looks like your dead best friend doesn't make it him. And your body relaxed to his touch! As if it _trusts_ this stranger! You shake your head.

"What did I just do?" You murmur. You know what you did. You let a stranger take your hand, run you all around the city, run you through an alleyway, and now you and said man are leaning against the wall under the bridge, the Thames River roaring beside you.

"What _did _you just do?" The man asks. Amusement in his voice, but when you look up, his face is puzzled. You're not sure whether to cheer or cry. This man is puzzled. _He _never got puzzled. But that means that your friend is truly dead.

Staring at the man, you try and find something, _anything_. Any clues whatsoever to whom he is.

"Who are you?" You ask.

"I think you know," his answers.

You suddenly feel the short distance between you is too close. You quickly straighten up and walk a few step forward, your head in your hand, trying to make sense of everything. Finally, you turn around. You haven't walked very far.

"I… I saw you… No, I saw _him_. And now you… You look like him. But you _can't _be him." Your voice sounds pleading. Whether it's because you want this stranger to confess or you desperately want him to be the real _him_, you're not quite sure. You're aware you're on the verge of tears. At your frustrated voice, the man narrows his eyes.

"Why can't I?" His voice is taunting. He begins walking to you. "If he is as you say, if he's dead, then I can be whoever the hell I want to, can't I? I could leave, and you'll never know who I really am." Now, he's standing right in front of you, his towering figure looking down at you. His face is in the shadows, but you think you see a condescending grin. He leans into your ear and whispers, "Or, since he's dead, I could take his place. No one will ever know the difference. After all, he was a liar."

You get furious. _No one _could ever, in a million year, take _his_ place. And he was _not _a liar. You grabbed the man and throw him against the wall. "Don't you _ever_ say that again!" You shout in his face. "Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man who ever lived. He solved crimes you couldn't even imagine! He was annoyingly smart and exceptionally stupid at the same time, but he was a great man. Always solved crimes with that bloody head of his and you have the audacity to claim he's a liar!? He is my best friend and he. Was. Not. A. Liar!" At the end of your rant, you realize how hard your breathing has gotten, your fists clenching the man's coat, and that all too familiar scarf. You let go, suddenly dizzy.

The whole time you've been shouting, the man stood perfectly still, listening to every word you said. Finally, he spoke, "Is."

Your heard is spinning. "What?" You ask confused.

"You said, 'is.' As in present tense. Do you still believe he's alive?"

"I…" You're not sure of what to say.

The man steps in closer to you and your breath hitches. "Do you believe I'm him? He's me?"

"Don't," you murmur. "Please… Just stop…" A wave of nausea sweeps over you. Nothing happens, but you feel cold and clammy. This is all too much, too much in one day.

"J-"

"Don't!" You shout. You haven't heard that name in a long time. "Just… Don't." Now, you simply go by your last name. Few people call you by your first. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. But usually, you try to avoid those people at all times. You haven't visited Mrs. Hudson in about a year. It was too painful for both of you.

The man frowns. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" You repeat. "What's _wrong_? Too many bloody things that's what's wrong! I had just gotten my life back together! I got a job, a ruddy _good _job that pays well, and I got a new flat, and a new grocer, and a new everything!" You don't mention you don't have any new friends. Colleagues, maybe some acquaintances, but not friends. "And then _you _show up! You show up just like him! Everything about you is just like him! But you_ can't _be him because I saw him die. He jumped off a bloody building claiming that Moriarty's lies were true. But they weren't true! So why in the bloody hell did you jump off that building!? Do you know what it's like? Seeing your best friend with a bashed in skull? Blood was everywhere and people kept me away from you! I couldn't hold my dead friend in my arms because of _them_! It took me ages, _ages_, to get over your death. But I finally did. This would've been month ten tomorrow. But now… Now, I'm obviously hallucinating! There's no way you're real! No way! And even if there was, you couldn't be him. Sherlock wouldn't just leave me!" Your voice begins to sound broken. You're fully aware of the tears that are slowly falling from your eyes. "He told me himself. He only has one friend. And that was me! I was your best friend and you were mine! Why!? Why did you leave if… I was your…" You can't finish the sentence. Everything starts happening at once. You begin to feel very dizzy. Suddenly, your knees buckled. Before you hit the ground, someone's there. He pushes you against the wall, his body holding up yours. Being so close does nothing to help your dizziness.

"J-"

"Don't," you repeat. "Please."

This time, the man ignores you. "John," he says firmly. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.

You cry harder, hold onto him tighter. "You… You're solid," you say between sobs. You know that if he wasn't keeping you pinned to the wall, you'd be on the floor curled up in an embarrassing fetal position.

"Yes I am," he replies. There seems to be a hint of affection in his voice, you can practically see the small smile that forming on his lips.

"H-how?" You don't want to let go of his scarf; its keeping you grounded. It begins to drizzle.

Sherlock looks up, "Why don't we talk about this later? It's beginning to rain and the serial killer-"

"No," you say firmly. Sherlock looks down and you know he's analyzing you. Your red eyes, your hand still gripping his scarf, your firm, but slightly shaking voice, and God only knows what else. But you keep your ground. Three years is three years too long and you want answers. Now.

Slowly, Sherlock begins to recall everything that happened. From beginning to end. From Moriarty to now. You're sure about an hour has past, but neither of you have moved. By the time he's done, your head is spinning and it's completely pouring.

"You did all this… To protect us?" You ask in wonder.

Sherlock nods. You two stare at each other for a long time, ignoring the pouring rain. Finally, you do something that surprises both of you. You slap him. The look on Sherlock's face almost makes you proud. It's not often one can surprise Sherlock.

"You idiot!" You shout. "Why didn't you tell anyone? Why don't you _ever_ tell anyone _anything_!? Isn't your life important to you? Don't you ever-"

You get cut off. One minute your shouting at the man, the next, the man is kissing you. Automatically, you shove him off. "Sherlock, don't!" Then you pause. You realize your breathing hard, so is Sherlock. Your hands are still on his chest. Something clicks. You remember all those years ago, right after the funeral, you said to the therapist,_ 'There's something I didn't get to tell him.' _Through the pouring rain, you slowly look up into Sherlock's eyes. There's something in them you don't often see. Pain. Pain and vulnerability. You continue speaking, your voice in an urgent whisper. "Just don't ever leave me again."

And this time, you kiss him.


End file.
